Flavours
by Porticulis
Summary: An ongoing collection of slash or otherwise FF8 ficlets by this author. Story Three: Before Play. Before thoughts become incomprehensible and the dawn breaks through the night there's a lot of room for exploration, both in body and mind. SeiferSquall.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: The first entry to what I intend as a growing 'anthology' of an assortment of FF8 ficlets straight or slashy. The game just leaves too many unanswered questions :P Since some of these fics will be super short while some stories might be related to others, it seems neater to have them under the same title. The title for this intended collection is based on an impossible dream I have on opening an ice- cream parlour that serves ice- cream and yaoi works together. As usual, don't like don't read.

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A Pilfered Bite

The most devestating truth is one that needs no proof. Truth that cannot be denied with mere lies or avoided with mere denials. Truth that can only be ignored superficially while it affects every area of our lives, extending its tendrils and twining tightly till all we can do is complain with our eyes shut why life has suddenly become so complicated, when all you really need to do is open your eyes . . . 

" . . . how long do you intend on pretending this isn't an issue?" a stern voice demaded while Zell hid behind the glossy Balamb's Aqua Platter menu dutifully ignoring it.

"That's right!" Another less authouritative but more persistent voice echoed, "You haven't stepped into the cafeteria for DAYS! That's like . . . YEARS!"

Zell pretended he didn't hear them but the girls saw the slight slump in his shoulders.

"Zell-" Quistis and Selphie began together but Zell shook his head vigorously behind the cover of the menu.

"It's no use persuading me, I'M NOT GOING BACK!!!"

A hush fell over the diner as the storm of Zell's outburst swept over Balamb's newest establishment.

Quistis sighed as she leaned back into her chair, rolling her blue eyes at the impossible youth as she brought her arms before her.

"You won't even tell us what's wrong," she complained without much enthusiasm and spared a warning glance for Selphie who was arched over the table, her fingertips almost brushing the menu as she readied her pounce.

In his personal dark sanctuary marked with the day's Balamb Fish 'N' Chips Special Deluxe Meal, Zell chewed his lower lip pensively, the dim luster of his blue eyes darkening. A tautness in his chest.

"It's . . . IT'S NOTHING DAMMIT!" he yelled before vaulting over the table and launching himself out of the open window behind the girls, blood- filled cheeks stinging in Balamb's bracing sea breeze streaming into and past his fleeting form. The girls watched him, Selphie fingering the discarded menu on the table.

"Will Zell be okay?" the brunnette wondered aloud as her green eyes idly scanned the appetizing menu.

Quistis sighed in quiet frustration, leaning back once more but shutting her eyes in a mute frown.

_'Boys . . .'_ she deplored silently in her mind.

Running till his lungs were fit to burst Zell sped through the blending scenery. The homes, the neighbourhood, the town, all a blur of greyish blues and dark greens that gave way to an interminable sandy brown and endless azure. Well this was the beach after all and Zell could collapse on the soft, grainy sand without hurting himself in an intimately personal area. Panting more than he really needed, Zell lay down on the warm beach and let the fresh breezes cool him off. He gazed at the sky above him, a thick blue complete with mushrooming white clouds. A predictable sight as well as . . . a reassuring one. Something Zell needed apart from time away from Balamb and from those hotdogs and . . .

A shadow tinted the skies and looking up Zell noted the wide- brimmed hat that hovered above its source. His gut shifted uncomfortably and he struggled to raise himself on suddenly weak limbs. Irvine eased himself into a crouch as Zell managed to haul his unresponsive body into an upright sitting position, his legs self- consciously folded before his torso instead of its usual childlike, innocent stretch. Irvine took it in with the barest hint of a wrinkle in his apologetic grin, his light blue eyes brighter in the shade of his hat.

"Hey Zell," he offered in greeting once a respectable pause punctuated with the call of seagulls had passed between them.

"Y-yo Irvine . . ." Zell replied cautiously, unable to maintain eye contact for more than a breath's worth of time.

Irvine drew his brows together in a crestfallen frown as his eyes narrowed appealingly.

"Zell . . . come on man, talk to me already. I'm sorry about that hotdog, I really am," he pleaded turqoise eyes doing his best puppy- eyed look that usually worked wonders on the chicks.

"It's alright," Zell mumbled as his eyes lingered in the shoe observation segment of their orbit.

"It's not alright man, the cafetria lady has been giving me the evil eye for a week now, exactly how long you've been staying away from the hotdogs . . ." Irvine sighed as Zell shot him a swift glance at this before oscillating back to the fascinating study of footwear.

"It's . . . er . . . o-okay . . . I'm . . . dieting . . ." Zell offered as explanation while his fingers clutched restlessly at his denim bermudas.

Irvine sighed, slumping over his knees while scratching his head thinking of something to say.

It had been, in a manner of speaking, his transgression but he hadn't thought twice about it back then when all he wanted was a bite of those famous hotdogs and a chance to taste what he intended to replicate for this babe he had set his mind on wooing. Irvine had heard all about the queue and even the fights but he figured after a pressured Squall had put his foot down on cafeteria violence he only had to worry about getting there early. He definitely wasn't expecting the ticket thrust right under his nose by a plain- looking guy who turned out to be the cafeteria lady's son. When the harassed youth had finished explaining it to him Irvine had slumped next to a startled Zell who ogled the sharpshooter with barely decent amazement, a ticket clutched tightly in his fist.

"They draw numbers from a box and only lucky ticket holders get a hotdog?" Irvine had moaned knowing his luck as well as the smiling dealers at the Galbadian Lucky Golden Casino did.

"Yup," Zell had agreed sparing Irvine a concerned look before whipping his head about as the numbers were called.

Cheers erupted sporadically and explosively as Irvine waited out the predictable ending when he was buffeted by one such blast. Zell had leapt up onto the bench, screaming a warcry and stomping about in a clumsy victory dance. As wistful eyes turned anxiously to the cafeteria lady who held the next number in her hand Irvine's look of hopeless despair had evaporated into unbelievable joy. It was like the day he learned that there was to be a bikini club o fhappy pillow- fighting girls in the recently rebuilt Trabia Garden.

"Zell!" he had called as the crowd of mixed reactions began their tidal exodus and Zell was still standing next to the counter, the hotdog held reverentially in his gloved hands, its thick mustard and white wrap shining in the light. Zell hadn't heard him.

"Zell! Zell!" he had cried in vain as the crowd swallowed him, their mournful groans and excited chatter drowning his voice as well. With a last burst of effort he had stumbled out of the mass of bodies only to see Zell in the midst of shoving the last half of the hotdog into his gaping, mustard- stained maw. He remembered the world slowing to a crawl as his horror- swept mind went blank.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

The next thing he knew he was nose to nose with a thunderstruck Zell, the remnants of the hotdog locked between ther mouths. Suddenly noticing their startlingly awkward situation he attempted to swallow the sudden knot in his throat, unwittingly biting down at the exact same moment Zell did, sealing an ill- fated kiss. The utter devestation he saw in Zell's eyes wasn't an image Irvine was likely to forget in a hurry.

Come to think of it, he should have known better than to trust that his luck had changed. Following that blasted incident his life's greatest tragedy followed. First, in his shock he had swallowed too quickly to properly analyse the taste for his project, then the cafeteria lady had berated him for stealing a growing boy's lunch AND his first kiss in one full swoop and finally Zell had made it all too clear on how he felt about the matter by boycotting the cafeteria and Irvine altogether. Silent treatment absolutely killed the sniper. He had tried everything he could to get Zell to talk to him normally again but Zell had declined to acknowledge he was upset and murmured quiet "it's alright"s before scurrying away too traumatised to even look him in the eye.

"I tried getting a hotdog this past week but you know me and my luck . . ." Irvine began despondently, "but I'm not giving up, I just . . . I'll make it up to you no matter how long it takes so . . . at least . . . don't stay away from Balamb Garden."

Sneaking a peek from his sullen pose Irvine watched hopefully at the downcast youth.

"Oh," Zell said simply drawing circles in the sand.

Irvine groaned inwardly. It looked like the blond youth wasn't just upset over the pilfered last bite. Irvine understood. The first kiss of a boy was the property of his first love and Irvine had ruined that. Clearing his throat the sharpshooter resigned himself to the only thing that could possibly square it.

"I know . . . that accident ruined your, your er . . . firs- ahem, yeah . . . but I'll make it up to you," he hesitated uncertainly, "I'll arrange a hundred genuine kissing opportunities with whomsoever you desire!"

That declaration ripped out of his mouth in a desperate bid for reconciliation, Irvine prayed it would be enough. His heart pounded as he watched Zell's finger slow and stop and he barely checked his recoil when Zell met his gaze.

"Promise?" the martial artist asked with wide- eyed suspicion.

Irvine hesitated. It was a tall order but he couldn't very well back out now. He nodded slowly.

"Then . . . we'll wait for hotdogs tomorrow. Together," Zell proposed, a slow smile lighting the faint blush to his cheeks.

Irvine stared for a moment and then broke into relieved laughter.

"Zell my man, it's going to be so easy setting up those kisses if you keep that smile with you," Irvine teased freely, happy now that the air was sweet again without the awkwardness hanging above his head.

Zell watched Irvine thoughtfully.

"I guess . . . you would know," he replied, an uncharacteristic softness in his eyes.

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	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Had another idea that begged for release so here you go. I must caution that I will be experimenting on different pairings both slash and non-slash as a fun excercise and that if you take offence to pairings aside from those you support it's best to read the summary before reading the fic and/or the notes here as well. Drabble-ish length; Squall/Seifer; mild violence; angsty? (I really don't count this as angst.)

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**Privilege of the Vanquished **

It was all over.

In the moment it took to caress the ridiculously soft lip, Seifer knew he had irrevocably crossed the stubborn borders of their crossfire. Crossed it and changed sides while still wanting to oppose Squall with every single fiber of his body and still want more. Looking down at those contracted pupils he saw himself framed in slowly blossoming surprise and clouding confusion. Tempted to poke one last jibe he parted his lips only to reaffirm his suspicions of what had choked up his throat. A dark line creeped down the corner of his mouth running neatly as it thickened down to his chin in a perfect tangent. Squall had busted his lung then, several good inches of that bizarre alloy thrust into his right chest, severing arteries and filling him with blood. It was good though, well worth it for that disarmed expression and as much as it hurt his pride to say so, he couldn't have avoided that stroke, perhaps even if it had been one on one. So he had lowered Hyperion partly for his vanity in appearing as if he had chosen to accept the blow and partly because he couldn't restrain himself from touching that fierce pout. It seemed so out of place on an evil mercenary, even one so man-pretty as Squall Leonhart. Trying to regain some of his manly swagger even in defeat he let his hand fall from the face of the man who bested him and land on the back of the impaling gunblade, tugging it out of chest and meeting no resistance save that of the torment of a thousand nerve- endings flaring at once. Squall's arms fell with the blade, all adrenalin gone now that the foe had indeed been vanquished and the reasons that turned them against each other were just justifications in the face of the enormity of what he had committed.

Yet all that it amounted to on their shadowed faces was that Seifer could smile about it in a suave, manly fashion while Squall had to brood about it like a good reluctant hero.

The pain was truly terrible. Seifer couldn't hold off the grimace even for his romantic fantasies but he relished how the smaller man nevertheless held up his larger frame as it buckled and fell. It was furthermore an advantageous position. Seifer found his lips brushing clumsily against the side of that pallid face, so warm contrary to the reputation it held, so warm compared to the insidious chill Seifer felt growing within him.

"I am . . . disgraced . . ." he whispered, barely managing to afford the breaths the admission cost him.

"To hell with this," Squall hissed in reply and Seifer felt the man stiffen and gasped as his wounds were invaded by a fluid force that rushed into him with such sweet agony that he trembled helplessly.

Knowing that the magic had been cast and the fallen knight would not be granted his battlefield death right, Seifer turned weak and dismayed emerald eyes to his rival who returned the look with one of grim satisfaction.

"We'll come back for you later," Squall informed him as he settled the exhausted knight against a marble pillar, "don't go wandering about."

Seifer watched those serious eyes and those serious lips offer those childlike words with a hilarious lack of self- consciousness and wanted to burst out laughing till his sides split, but even his toughened body couldn't endure more than one mortal wound in a day.

"Don't take too long," Seifer returned instead as his eyes wavered shut and the last hazy thing he remembered was a careful grip leaning him more comfortably against the woefully cold marble.

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	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Coffee makes me violently ill and yet from time to time I'll make the mistake of taking it. I can't take coke either and the first time I drank sprite I almost stripped on grad night. That was probably TMI. Anyway, this fic started when I was feeling really bad from caffeine poisoning and wanted something sensual yet romantic. Trying to finish it I realised that this was turning out to be a really loosely constructed fic and thus truly worthy of this spot in the anthology XD Someday when I'm up to it I'll start a more structured, chaptered FF8 fic but for now I present to you, Before Play.

Warning, this product might contain: Squall/ Seifer, Lime, Moderate length

**Before Play**

Dim the lights to the glow of sunset on restless, drawn curtains, this is exclusively our evening that the constellations aren't allowed to pry into. Your blue eyes watch me, taking in the darkness of my damp blond hair glinting with stray beads of moisture. I was too impatient to leave the shower after all even after agreeing to take things slow. We have all night though, several candles' worth of time that for now seems more than enough.

"You're dripping," you scold though your brows do not shift from their calm repose. I grunt unremorsefully but I can't help the traitorous curl at the corner of my needful lips. When you concentrate on anything those perfect sapphire orbs glow with unwavering focus, just as they do now. You won't admit it and I won't ask, yet these hints are enough to betray our mutual attachment.

Breaking our connection you apply yourself to the urgent task of music, turning the disc player on via remote and setting it to play. You can hide your eyes in the activity but not your scarlet nape. I had almost forgotten about the effect I must be having on you standing in your bedroom with nothing but a towel wrapped loosely about my waist. Printing my steps on the soft carpeting I swagger towards your stiffening form. You were watching so intensely just a moment ago and with just a shift of your flushing face I'm supposed to believe you're aloof again? That dishonest side of you is a barb that keeps me hooked, hooked to watch you pretend like it doesn't matter and to provoke you till you spill those innermost feelings and reward me with that embarrassed and defensive incline of your head. As if you've been caught doing something wrong.

I like seeing you worked up, especially over me. So don't hide those eyes.

I carry my fingers against your chin and guide your face to mine. Those grey hints in your eyes that leave the illusion of an ephemeral blue are a fixating part of that impassive gaze you keep on me. They try to say that you don't really care if I stay or leave, either way those eyes would stare unfazed to the end of infinity. Those eyes that used to infuriate me, stubbornly resisting and deceptively self- sufficient, those eyes; somehow they make the chill of my wet body more bearable.

"I'm cold," I complain.

Your expression barely flickering you nod, dislodging my fingers but not letting it fall far before they're in your grasp and you're leading me to the dark covers of the carefully made bed. I'm content to follow almost clumsily like a child, certainly giddy as one. I contemplate stumbling and pushing you down beneath the lascivious slope of my torso but before I can put the plan into action you're already guiding me onto the firm bed. I watch as you reach for the body oil and a thrill runs down my spine. When you turn bottle in hand and spot my slack- jawed anticipation you barely hold in that smirk. Dipping your head to mask it in shadows you lean in, cupping your hand right next to my navel and I feel my muscles tense there at the contact. Patience is a cruel virtue. With thankful swiftness, the warm coating touch of oil distracts me as the clear liquid greedily runs down this sizzling slab of meat. I voice my sentiments and this time you don't bother to hide that mocking grin.

"So I'm marinating?" you counter and don't bother to wait for my reply as you turn your attention back to the oil that has flowed too far down for your liking. You like the blond fuzz of hair spiraling down from my navel too much to allow the oil to plaster it down. It's a strangely endearing habit, one that I encourage by never letting you know how much that single particularity turns me on.

Coaxing the oil back up, you spread it over hard flesh that shifts sensitively for the moment. I don't think I'm ticklish but you have a way of touching all those awkward spots without even seeming to look for them. I'm definitely not ticklish. Why am I biting down my lower lip? To keep the moans in of course. You're unimpressed by my cogent arguments and stare flatly at me but relent anyway and coast up to my left chest, your forefinger first then your thumb teasing the nipple there before rising further to fold over my shoulders with soothing pressure. The urge to take you here and now is suppressed but only barely, especially when your strong fingers press against the resistance of my flesh, the physical tension, to my idle mind, symbolic of the larger tension between us. The only difference is that the smooth coat of oil that makes this friction pleasant does not exist between us and the complicated world and its complicated values perpetuated in hushed whispers.

_How could they indulge in such an unnatural perversion? Even accepting that, how could the ice sculpture of Michelangelo's David find to its tough yet gentle and softly beautiful image a match that opposes it in all its hard, coarse and destructive manner? Who's the "woman" between them?_ Base and meaningless questions that having been whispered in an undertone should have stayed in the gutters but had inevitably flooded them and reached the ears of us Knights.

Watching you ease your fingers against twitching muscles I see not a trace of doubt or hesitation as you skillfully master the familiar terrain. It draws a smile from me for who can blame the sudden irrational happiness that swells within my chest- save you. Promptly chiding me you hint that I shouldn't get too comfortable because you aren't going to be doing this all night. You're right of course, I can't get too comfortable. It wasn't too long ago that my proximity would make you stiffen and glance away with troubled brows. Waiting for you to say, "it's too hard, let's forget it" was this growing realists's mounting agony, yet the words never came. Then overnight the awkwardness vanished and reeling from the sudden change I could only anchor myself in the reality of your grasp. Firm; decisive; unshakeable.

I suppose I have to thank your friends for that. Don't be so surprised to hear it if you ever do, I'm capable of giving credit where credit is due. They've never seen anything funny or disgraceful about you facing your feelings, although I do admit I'm surprised Zell didn't leap onto a table and start shrieking restlessly like the giant monkey he is. He does know we sleep together right? Right? Probably not. Still their support is what keeps you grounded and focused on what you want. Rinoa especially, pointing out from the start that you will always be her trusted knight and that that is one of the couple of things that really matter to her. The other is that you find the strength and the space to live your life, allowing no excuses to deny yourself that. I'd kiss her if that wouldn't be so damned awkward. As it is I lay off with the mocking of your friends, just a little.

"Seifer?"

I look up, stirring from my pensive silence. Those blue eyes glowing attentively, search my blank expression for some clue to the unvoiced question. Rather than deny anything and admit that there's something I merely flash a smile and lean in, placing a brief kiss against your neck. My lips feel dry and come to think of it so does my throat but I don't know what that means. I don't linger to figure it out though. Already your scent mingles with my breath and just as my exhalations ripple against your nape, so do the Squall- rich inhalations tease my inner composure. My mouth traces against the smooth curve all the way up to that pale lobe where I press down on the soft flesh, nibbling through my lips. Did you know that the Galbadian colloquial for whisper is 'words by the ear' ? I have words to breathe that belong only by the side of this ear, words that are loath to suffer any distance from you.

Whispering them I draw away but only far enough to kiss that full bottom lip and draw it into my mouth, tasting its muted surprise. Savouring the pulsing flavour, it still amazes me how fluid this moment is and how surreal our time has become. The world hadn't decided to stand on its head, I had merely fallen head over heels and from this vantage point the revolution I had once pretended to champion truly does exist. Only this time I recognise it not because I need to be a champion, but because I need and am possessed with the determination to fulfill it. Feeling your fingers play over my back I know that I have found, once more, a cause worth fighting the world for. Of course, it could just be my lust talking.

Speaking of which . . . it's about time I rid you of that cumbersome shirt of yours.

The curtains are as dark and restless as Balamb's nightly tides and the stars strain in vain to see past their veiling rhythm.


End file.
